i'm not calling you a liar (just don't lie to me)
by emmaslovebug
Summary: Literati. 2.16. She can't help it, though. When she should be thinking of Dean, his face comes to mind. When she's actually with Dean, he's always two steps away from - physically or figuratively. Why doesn't he just go away?


**Small vignette set in 2.16; after everyone has left except Paris. It does use some lines from the deleted scene between Paris and Rory.**

 **Dislcaimer** : I'm but a measly writer; if I owned anything though it'd be my own Krispy Kreme.

* * *

 _There's a ghost in my lungs_

 _And it sighs in my sleep,_

 _Wraps itself around my tongue,_

 _As it softy speaks._

* * *

Some days, much like today, she'd lie in bed for hours attempting – and failing – to fall asleep, all kinds of thoughts running through her mind. Thoughts of school assignments, thoughts of new books she has yet to read, even thoughts of _him_.

She shouldn't be thinking of him, she's got a boyfriend for Christ's sakes – a perfect boyfriend, a faithful boyfriend, a boyfriend who made her a car and always says the right things and brings her ice cream when he gets off work.

(But they're always in cups, and she's always had a thing against cups since she was little. They just don't taste the same.)

She can't help it, though. When she should be thinking of Dean, _his_ face comes to mind. When she's actually with Dean, he's always two steps away from her – physically or figuratively. She doesn't know what it is about him.

It's different than when she's with Dean; with her boyfriend it's all pecks on the lips, silent movie marathons, and hands remaining only over clothing and above the neckline.

Yet with him – _Jess, just say his fucking name_ – it's a live wire. Being around him creates a shock in her system, her nerve endings spark with fire and her hair stands on end. With him, it's rousing discussions about books and movies and music, challenging her and pointing out her flaws as well as her strengths. With him, it's intense stares that have her wanting to run her fingers down her own body in the dead of night – wound tightly under the dark covers so no one can see, not even herself.

She imagines what those eyes would look like in the heat of passion, watching her as she comes undone around his fingers for the first time.

She shoots up in bed, her hand coming to her beating heart. She left Paris in the living room to come to the comfort of her own bed, and she's grateful. She shouldn't be thinking these thoughts with other people in the room.

 _No!_ She shouldn't be thinking these thoughts at all, at least not of another guy. Of a guy who's not even her guy. No matter how much her heart races at the thought of him being near her, or how her toes curl when he throws a smirk her way, his eyes sparkling with a promise of what could be. Or perhaps worst of all when her skin prickles with the need to be near him even when he's nowhere near her.

She rubs her eyes with the edges of her palms, chasing away the dredges of the sleep that tried to sneak up on her. Looking up, she stares through the darkness towards her vanity, where the box of corn starch and Colonel Clucker come into view, sitting next to each other, among a million other tchotchkes.

She sighs, those times seem like so long ago now. When he gave her a handmade bracelet and snuck up on her in the bus just to say 'hello,' and gave her her first kiss in Doose's, the aisle with the ant spray. _Great aisle_ , Lane had muttered. She loves him, she'll always love him. Forever.

Right?

She looks over to her bookshelf. Howl sticks out at her first and she's tempted to pick it up and re-read Jess' margin notes for probably about the twentieth time since he returned it.

' _angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly  
connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery  
of night,'_

Be it she is the hipster, scouring her brain for the light and power in the night, only coming upon one conclusion that he may be the only machine she wants a connection to anymore.

Flopping back down on her pillows, her hair fans around her, the ends tickling the skin of her arms, she lets out a deep throaty sigh. She won't be able to get back to sleep now. Checking the clock on her bedside table she reads 4:38 in glaringly bright red neon.

Kicking the sheets off of her with her feet aggravatingly, she strides to the kitchen. She needs coffee.

-/-

(She doesn't think about the fact that she started blushing a deep red down to her chest when she felt his hands brush hers, laying the bills along her palm, or her knee jerk reaction to grab a hold of his hand and never let go. He's warm.

 _He brought over enough food to feed Europe_ , Paris informed her last night. _He's unbelievably cute._

Looking at him now, she definitely agrees; his hair sticking up every which way, his strong jaw and slim neck atop firm shoulders and biceps. His dark eyes though – she shudders from the memory of last night – oh his eyes do her in.

She's got to get out of here. No, there's nothing there. Never. She loves Dean.

She'll always love Dean.)

-/-

(She doesn't always think herself a liar.

But she really does need to stop lying to herself.)


End file.
